


Safe in the Water

by Aprimespecimen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Roadhog, Junkrat wants to fuck the fish, M/M, bottom mako, maybe smut later, merman au, roadrat - Freeform, sharkhog, top junkrat, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aprimespecimen/pseuds/Aprimespecimen
Summary: Life is shit for Jamison Fawkes. Fresh out of prison, he doesn't have a lot going for him. Can meeting a gorgeous guy help solve all his problems? Probably not, but did I mention this guy is a merman?





	Safe in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go. I'm back at it with some gay stuff! Thought I'd try my hand at the whole merman Roadhog thing this time. I have ideas for this to be a long story, but we'll see how that goes. Ha ha... Anyway, please enjoy! Comments would be appreciated.

Mako pulled his enormous body up onto the sandbar under the pier, dragging his long silvery tail behind him. The area was all tightly packed moist sand and rock that had been worn smooth by years of waves crashing over them. They scraped against the smooth underside of his lower body, irritating the lighter scales there, and the mending gash along the swell of his round gut.  He heaved himself between the barnacle infested pillars that supported the platform far above, sand collecting under his black fingernails. This would all be underwater when high tide came around, so it was a perfect hideout-- the water would even wash away the small trail of blood he’d left in his wake. Though, in the meantime, he would have to deal with the incessant cry of the gulls, and the shouting of the humans above as the moved large pieces of mechanical equipment. Mako wasn’t certain what they were assembling up there, but it was loud.

 He hated this time of year. It was the time when the air began to warm, the sun burning longer and brighter each day, and with it, brought more humans—loud, annoying humans. They made it increasingly hard for the great Sharkhog to hunt down food, their noise frightening off many of the native schools of fish that were his natural choice of prey. Yes, the Sharkhog—named for his shark tail and immense appetite—was going hungry. He often did in this season. He lived long enough to expect that by now. What was not usual was running into people hunting him.

Not long ago, he’d been attacked off the shoreline. He’d breached the surface of the water to feed off a patch of kelp only to be met with a harpoon to his side. Mako never met anything brave enough to attack him, probably due to his massive size, so he had been caught off guard. The sharp weapon had glanced off his belly, slicing the thick blubbery flesh, but thankfully not running him through.

He’d been forced to sink that boat. What other option did he have? The blood of the human that dared to assault him was like chum in the water, but he had resisted the urge to feast on the remains; he was not yet that desperate. Meat wasn’t a normal part of his diet. He ate mostly fish, shellfish, and other oceanic plants.

Regardless, the humans had discovered what he’d done and had been patrolling the water in search of him. At least, that’s what he gathered from watching their ships trail up and down the coast, humans scanning the horizon for some faceless menace…

He wheezed softly, checking over the poorly healing wound on his side. It wasn’t infected thanks to the salt of the sea keeping it sterile—for that, the Sharkhog was thankful. He inhaled deeply, his lungs taking time to adjust to breathing on land. Hungry, in pain, having difficulty breathing… He was suffering. As a distraction, he began humming the ancient hymns of his long dead people while picking bits of seaweed from his flowing silver locks. His eyes, blue as the ocean, looked out to the horizon as the sun began to peek up over it, the glare blinding like fire on the water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jamison Fawkes, better known as Jamie, had just gotten out of prison. The young man had always had a penchant for causing chaos and, well, setting fires. His favorite activity throughout his teen years had been tossing homemade pipe bombs and fireworks into dumpsters. This compulsion for anarchy had led him down a path of being kicked out of every school he’d ever entered and into more juvenile detention centers than he’d like to remember.  They never stopped him though. No amount of therapy or punishment could change the wild blonde boy much to the chagrin of his foster parents. He needed to act out in these ways just as much as he needed to breathe. They gave him a rush of adrenaline that was sorely lacking in his sad life.

The night of the incident had been quiet. For once, Jamie wasn’t up to no good—not actively at least. He’d been working on a new sort of explosive in his foster family’s garage, using whatever scrap and household chemicals he could scavenge. His exploit that evening had involved making a sort of remote controlled explosive tire; a brilliant idea if he did say so himself. With that bad boy, Jamison would have been able to cause mayhem from great distances away. However, he was only eighteen and had no formal training when it came to handling such highly volatile materials. One misplaced wire sparked a huge explosion. At least, that’s what he was told at the hospital; he couldn’t remember any of it. All he knew was his right side had been decimated—both limbs gone. His leg had been completely blown off just above the knee, his arm just below his elbow.

The good news was his foster parents made it out of the burning wreckage of their home alright, so _murder_ wouldn’t be added to his rap sheet. The bad news was he’d be getting prosecuted for arson regardless.  At least, he didn’t have to go straight to prison; he had a couple months of rehabilitation first.

Now here he was. After seven years in prison, he was finally out on parole. The suits had taken pity on him because he was disabled. _Idiots._ The joke was on them-- Jamie still had the same urges for destruction that he always had. The only thing he’d gotten from being incarcerated that long was a nickname: Junkrat—named for his sloppy, almost homemade looking prosthetics, and his ratty features.

“Pissheads,” Jamie snickered to himself, hammering in the final nail to the small kiosk he was setting up. This, unfortunately, was part of his parole. He had to keep a job, a shitty one at that. He was assisting in the setup of the annual carnival on the pier—Lights on the Water. Poor excuse for a name in Jamison’s opinion, but honestly, he couldn’t do much better. However, he could definitely give them bigger, brighter lights… with explosives. He took a moment to fantasize about blowing the whole shebang sky high. Ah, that would be a sight! The sun was beginning to rise in the sky, just peeking over the line where the sky met the sea. The heat would follow soon enough. Tuning out the bark of the other men and the repetitive bang of hammers, Jamison tried to enjoy the final moments of the cool morning.

“Oi, Fawkes!” A screeching voice cut him from his daydreaming. Jamie jumped to his foot and peg prosthetic, eyes darting like a cornered prey animal. Finally, his jittering gaze landed on his mustachioed foreman. The man—he couldn’t be bothered to remember his name-- was a heap of muscles, but more in the body builder fashion than any truly strong man, meaning he was shaped like an upside-down triangle. Yeah, triangle man. That’s what he’d decided to call him. “You finished with the booth? Move on to the next one! I’m not paying you to sit on your ass!”

An immediate scowl fell over the blonde boy’s features, his thick brows shading amber eyes. Oh, this guy was a classy piece of work, meaning he was a right cunt. Jamison had been busting his ass all morning and had probably finished half his work for the day in just a few hours. “Sure would there, boss man, but it’s me break.” The hammer was dropped unceremoniously as he wobbled past Triangle man. There was a yelp of pain from the foreman as the heavy tool landed on his foot, but Jamie didn’t bother turning back to see the shocked look on the man’s face. He was too busy booking it back up the pier and down to the beach.

“Fuckin’ cunt, that one!” Jamison tittered, angry but not able to disconnect his amusement at giving the bastard what he deserved. His peg sank into the soft sand with each step, making his gait more lopsided than usual. Sneering at the ground, he ranted to himself, “The bitch’ll ‘member his steel toed boots t’morrow.” That was if Jamison even still had his job when he got back. If not, oh well, it wasn’t like he wanted that job. Though, the parole agents would be up his ass when they found he was jobless again.

“Really don’t wanna go back ta the slammer…” He mumbled to himself. Dirty nails picked the loose threads of his shorts as he paced, looking out to the waves rhythmically lapping the shore. Anxiety prickled in his chest from so many things. He had no one to rely on, nowhere to go, and the looming threat of being sent back to prison was ever-present. So many restrictions had been placed on him; it was basically like he was still locked up. Getting worked up, he kicked a nearby rock to vent his frustrations. It skidded across the sand, knocking into one of the giant legs of the pier-- lashing out at something always made him feel better, so he headed after the rock, limping over to the pillar it rested against. As he neared, a deep melody became more apparent. It was a voice, smooth and deep, almost velvety. Instantaneously, his chest felt lighter. Hell, everything felt better.

He needed to get a better listen. Sidling quietly around the pillar, barnacles scraping his metal hand, he crept into the shaded area under the massive dock. The smell here was saltier, almost with an iron tinge that stung Jamie’s tongue. It didn’t deter him though. Peg slipping over smooth stone, he peered around a final pillar and caught sight of a man. A big one… a giant one… He had flowing silver hair that trailed down his muscular back, and he had to at least be seven feet long from head to tail… Wait. Tail? Yeah, this guy had a tail. It looked to be that of a great white shark, or something similar. The scales glinted in the small beams of light falling over him from between the slates of wood overhead. Unsure if this was a hallucination or not, the boy mumbled to himself, “Hooley fuckin’ dooley…”

 

 


End file.
